


Alice

by Yavannie



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: 1980s, Angst, Explicit Language, F/M, For Canon Reasons, High School, Pre-Canon, Sexual Content, Smut and Angst, Swearing, Teen Angst, Teen Romance, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-09 12:45:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11104836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yavannie/pseuds/Yavannie
Summary: “What were you doing?” he says, glancing at the door to the back.“Counting cups.”“All alone?”She nods, and the look he gives her is so dirty she can barely believe it. Slowly, she backs away towards the door, never breaking his gaze. She opens it, raising an eyebrow, and quick as a flash, FP gets to his feet and scrambles over the bar to follow her.





	Alice

**Author's Note:**

> All right, so these fuckers have _completely_ stolen my heart. I hate them both so much, so hey, why not make them suffer? Not betaed, concrit is very much appreciated.

In her first year, she keeps her head down. She's a good girl, she studies hard. Their house is right on the very border of the school district. One more block and she would have been at Southside High.

“It’s a blessing,” her mom says. “God gave you this chance, Alice. Don't go letting him down.”

Alice doubts very much that God makes the maps, that he draws the red lines that separate the wheat from the chaff, but she knows mom has a point. It's 1987; she can make her own life, mold it into whatever she wants it to be. All it takes is hard work and good grades. In her first year of high school, Alice works harder than she's ever done before. She's good at it. Better than most.

 

* * *

 

“Okay, the book is wrong again,” proclaims Mary, shutting the offending object with a firm slap.

They're lying out on the lawn, the sun beaming down on their ponytails. It's a fine summer's day, and they're studying geometry. Alice likes geometry. She's only adequately good at math, so she has to study hard to get her A’s, with this one exception. Geometry has always seemed simple to her, the numbers and angles materializing in her mind like structures and shapes without effort. It's a visual, intuitive language that she speaks quite fluently, and she can't understand Mary's problems with it. She picks the book up and turns to the right page, then compares the problem with Mary's notes.

“You've confused convex and concave again,” she says after giving the notes a cursory glance.

“Uuugh!” groans Mary, tearing the book from Alice's hands to see for herself. “I hate geometry! When will I ever use this in a courtroom?”

Mary has her mind made up. She's going to be a lawyer, or maybe even a judge. Sometimes Alice joins her in watching _L.A. Law_ and always ends up concentrating on not breathing too loudly instead of on the plot, because it's vitally important that they keep completely quiet the whole time they're watching.

Alice doesn't know what she wants to do yet. Something that pays well, and that she doesn't need a husband for. Alice likes to watch _Dallas_ , but she doesn’t tell Mary that, because _duh_ , _Dallas_ is _totally_ uncool now. Sometimes she writes stories about it, when something is left unresolved, or when she hates an episode. In school, she's good at almost everything, but she enjoys writing most of all.

“There's no money in writing,” Mary usually says, and Alice knows she's right. So she spends hours revising anatomy, because doctors make tons.

Anatomy and geometry are not that different, she thinks as she watches FP Jones over by the picnic tables. The angle of his jaw is mesmerizing. She can't stop watching it as he chews his fries. His hair is held back by a folded bandana, the black tresses of his fringe falling down to frame his face, joining up seamlessly with that stupid jawline. Alice can feel something stirring inside, and she shifts a little, letting her body rock against the roughness of the grass, just for second or two, as much as she dares without raising suspicion from Mary.

Suddenly he looks up, looks straight at her, as if he can feel her eyes on him. Quickly, she stares down into her book, trying to keep herself from blushing.

“Don't look now,” mumbles Mary “but I think FP and his friends are… Oh my God, yep, they're coming here.”

Alice glances up again. FP is in their year but he acts as though he's been the boss around here for decades. It's rubbing off on sophomores, even juniors, and he's accompanied by one of each now, in addition to the ever-present Fred Andrews. They sit down on the grass, too close for comfort, invading their space, smelling of aftershave none of them need yet.

“Saw you looking,” says FP, jutting his chin out at Alice. “See something you like?”

Alice sits up, pulls her skirt down to hide her knobbly knees. It’s a modest skirt, because her mom is modesty personified and wouldn’t dream of seeing her girl in (in her own words) whatever passes for fashion these days. Come to think of it, it’s probably _her_ skirt. Alice shrugs because she doesn't know what to say.

“You girls work too hard,” says Fred Andrews. “You should relax a little, come watch the football practice after school.”

“ _You girls?_ ” says Mary, effectively crushing any hopes Alice had of actually taking them up on that offer.

“Uh, well, Alice and…” he hesitates. “I mean, do you expect me to remember every single name around this place?” Fred laughs uncertainly at his own joke, and the sophomore boy - Harry? Larry? - joins in. FP smirks, and Alice thinks that it's probably the sexiest smirk in the world.

“Bag your face, Andrews,” spits Mary, drawing hoots from the older boys.

“You could sit on it, then you wouldn’t have to see it,” says FP calmly.

Fred cackles nervously and Mary gasps, shocked, but Alice’s hand flies out without the action passing through the filter of her brain first. The slap makes a sharp sound, even though it’s not particularly hard. She feels almost as surprised as FP looks as he reflexively touches his cheek.

“Asshole,” she says, but FP just smiles again.

“Practice starts at four,” he says.

“Oh, I’m sure,” says Mary.

“Perhaps another time,” says FP, eyes still firmly on Alice.

“Yeah, next year when you've grown some tits,” says the sophomore, snorting a laugh.

“That's enough, Larry,” says FP, getting to his feet. “Show a little respect.”

But the glance he throws her over his shoulder is totally not respectful at all, and it makes her blush all over again.

“Jerks,” says Mary, fuming.

“Jocks,” says Alice.

“Jerk jocks.”

“Jock jerks.”

“Jock jerks who jerk off alone because no one wants their grody asses anyway.”

“Mary!” says Alice, shoving her lightly, and Mary pushes her back, laughing, and then they collapse in a heap of giggles and guffaws until the bell rings them in for English.

The next time she gets a bit of money (her uncle sometimes slips her five bucks and she hates the way he looks at her but takes the bills all the same), she buys her first bra. It's a padded one. She starts rolling her skirts up a little once she’s out of sight of her house in the mornings. She drags Mary along to football practice once, with the pretext that they can make fun of the stupid jock posers. Mary sighs and rolls her eyes, but Alice can see her looking at Fred like she might at a clumsy, endearing puppy, and she knows she doesn’t mind being here.

 

* * *

 

In her second year, Alice tries out for the River Vixens and makes the troupe as a side base. She hides the outfit from mom and says she’s taking extra singing classes with Ms Bucket who’s super religious and half blind and can’t really tell who attends and not.

“It’ll look good on my college application,” she says to Mary, who looks at her like she knows exactly what she’s about.

She practices her stretches until she can easily slide down into a split, does her reading while balancing on her bed frame until she can confidently handle the scorpion, the arabesque, the heel stretch, even though she’s not a flyer. Sometimes they practice outside, next to the football team, and Alice does her very best, and she does her very best to do it effortlessly. Sometimes she thinks maybe FP is watching her; she knows for sure a lot of the others do.

One night, after practice, she’s in the gym bathrooms. She’s had a stomach ache all day, and she thinks maybe she’s constipated. When she sits down, she sees the blotch of brownish red in her panties, and for several minutes she just sits there, staring at it. Then the door outside opens, and two other girls come in, chatting and laughing. Alice doesn’t know what to do, so she sits there in her stall, just listening. One of them is the team captain, Sandra; the other, she can’t be sure. They talk for ages, about a music festival they went to that summer, about cheer, about boys (about FP, and Alice feels her stomach tighten when they do), about whether Javier in senior looks like Emilio Estevez or not. And then she hears her own name, and her ears prick up uncomfortably.

“That new girl is pretty good, don’t you think? Alice.” That’s Sandra, and Alice feels her heart swell nervously with pride.

“She’s alright,” says the other girl doubtfully.

“She’s a solid addition to the troupe,” Sandra insists.

“Oh, sure… It’s just… Her clothes are a bit _worn_ , you know?”

“Hermione…”

“We’ve got to think about our reputation, that’s all I’m saying.”

They leave, continuing their conversation as they go, but Alice has one single word pounding in her ears, blocking out the rest. _Worn. Worn. Worn_. With shaking hands, she unrolls a length of toilet paper, folds it neatly and puts it in her panties. It chafes all the way home.

That weekend, she goes around Pop’s to ask for a job. She can see from the look in his eyes that he doesn’t really need any more help around the place, but she stands her ground, nagging, wheedling, begging, and in the end, he can’t say no. Two nights a week, Tuesdays and Fridays.

She’s almost sixteen, and good at her job, good at almost everything she does, including smiling at the truckers. She earns more in tips than she does in wages.

“God have mercy on you,” her mother says when she comes home wearing light blue jeans and a cropped top.

 

* * *

 

FP comes in alone late on a Tuesday and orders a burger and fries. Alice feels self-conscious, aware of the grease clinging to her hair, the sweat at the nape of her neck. When she takes his order, she tucks her elbows in, in case she has armpit stains. While Pop works the order, she rushes to the restroom to pull a brush through her hair a couple of times, and put some lipstick on.

“Thanks, Alice,” FP says when she brings the food. “Want a fry?”

She looks around. The place is more or less dead, so she slides into the booth opposite him and grabs one, chews it because he offered, not because she wants any. She’s sick of fries, sick of the smell, the taste, the very way they look.

“Where’s the gang?” she asks.

He ignores the question. “Want to go to the movies? _Die Hard_ is on at the Twilight this Friday if you’re down.”

“A date, FP?” she says, leaning forward, radiating what she hopes is confidence. This is the most she’s ever spoken to him.

“If that’s what you want to call it.”

He looks straight at her, his eyes resting so calmly on hers she almost can’t take it. “I’m working Fridays,” she says.

“Shame,” he says, taking a big bite out of his burger. “Perhaps another time.”

He doesn’t leave a tip.

 

* * *

 

“FP asked me out,” she says, apropos of nothing (she’d been waiting for the perfect moment, the moment when she’d seem the least bothered, when she could throw it out there to make it look like she was merely making conversation, saying something to fill the silence).

Mary doesn’t even deign to look up from her trig book. “Not even,” she says, sounding bored.

“Even!” says Alice.

This time Mary frowns, and puts her book down. “Really?”

“He totally did!” All pretense of not caring is out the window now.

“Tell me everything.”

So Alice tells what little there is to tell, and all the while, Mary’s frown deepens.

“What?” asks Alice when the expected reaction of whooping and high-fiving remains absent.

“I don’t know, Alice…”

“ _What?_ ”

Mary looks at her with pity. “I don’t want to be the one telling you this, but… Don’t you _know_ what FP does to the girls he takes to the drive-in?”

Alice doesn’t really want to think about other girls that he takes places at all, but she shakes her head anyway. It’s not like she doesn’t know he dates a lot. Like, _a lot_ a lot.

“He goes there all the time, always with some new girl. He takes them there, and then he… He _fucks_ them, Alice, and then he dumps them.”

She’s quiet for a few seconds, processing this information. “He does?”

 

* * *

 

She manages to swap her shift at short notice, and on the Friday, she walks up to him in the cafeteria. “So, _Die Hard_ tonight. Pick me up at eight?”

A low murmur passes through his wolfpack, and someone whistles. FP himself raises his eyebrows and coughs, choking on his food a little. “I thought you were busy,” he says.

“Your treat,” she says. “Eight o’clock, take it or leave it.”

He picks her up at eight, buys popcorn and drinks for them. There’s a blanket in the car, and he wraps it over her shoulder, pulling her close. She can’t quite believe it’s happening, can’t believe the feeling of his warm body, strong and solid, next to hers. He is her first kiss, but she’s been practicing on her hand, and she hopes he can’t tell. They kiss, and kiss, and kiss, and with Beethoven playing in the background, he puts his hand under her jumper, cupping her breast through her best bra, and slides the other up her skirt, over her thigh, fingers brushing against her panties.

“No,” she says firmly, and his hand freezes.

“What?” he asks, his breath warm against her cheek.

She pulls back a little. This isn’t going according to plan at all, but now that they’re here, she can see things clearly somehow. To her own surprise, she gives him an honest answer. “I don’t even know you, FP.”

“So what?”

“So, no.”

“Well, what do you want to know?”

They end up talking for the rest of the movie. When it’s finished, he drives her home, and they sit in his truck a couple of blocks away, talking until her shift normally finishes.

“I should go,” she says finally, reaching for the handle.

“You’re something, Alice,” says FP.

“What?”

“Just…” he leans over, and they kiss again. This time it’s soft, and sweet, and brief, and it lights such an unholy fire in her that she practically runs home, flops belly down on the bed and rubs herself for all of thirty seconds before crying out silently into the covers.

The next Monday at school, he ignores her and she thinks, _two can play that game_.

 

* * *

 

The end of term exams come and go, and in between cheer practice and working at Pop’s, she still manages to ace all of them. Then Christmas comes around, and for the first time in the ten years that have passed since they put him there, she refuses to go see dad in prison.

“But it’s Christmas!” her mother exclaims.

“I’m working,” she says. “I'm covering for Claire.”

“On a Sunday? It’s open on a _Sunday?_ ”

“Yeah, every day means every day, mom.”

“Once a year I ask you, Alice, to do this. To be with your family, all of us, together. Once a year.”

And just like that, she snaps. “He put himself there, mom! He fucking _killed_ someone, and _that’s_ why we can’t be together, so don’t you _dare_ put this on me!”

Mom just gapes, opens and closes her mouth like some stupid goldfish. “Really, Alice!” she manages. “You had better watch your tongue with me, or–”

“Or what, exactly? _What?_ Dad isn’t around to put me over his knee anymore, and I’m glad. I’m more than glad, I’m _fucking_ glad. He deserved everything that he got, and I hope he never gets out. I hope he _dies_ there. I hope he fucking _rots_.”

 

* * *

 

Christmas Day is the least busy day of the year. Alice wears red tinsel in her hair, has a little Santa pin on her uniform and glittery eyeliner, all for herself and no one else. She's taking stock of the paper cups just to have something to do when the bell gives a jingle. FP sits down at the bar just as she comes back out from the storeroom.

“Merry Christmas, Alice,” he says. “Where’s Pop?”

“He’s with the family today,” she says, warily. They haven’t spoken in weeks. “I can make you a sandwich if you like. A shake. Anything cold. Coffee?”

“What were you doing?” he says, glancing at the door to the back.

“Counting cups.”

“All alone?”

She nods, and the look he gives her is so dirty she can barely believe it. Slowly, she backs away towards the door, never breaking his gaze. She opens it, raising an eyebrow, and quick as a flash, FP gets to his feet and scrambles over the bar to follow her.

Packets of napkins and straws topple and tumble to the floor as he grabs her and hoists her up on the nearest shelf. The buttons on her uniform strain as he pushes his hips between her legs, and she hurries to shimmy it up a little, afraid that it might tear. He kisses her without any finesse, his tongue pressing against her lips until she lets him in. He moans into her mouth, sucks at her bottom lip so hard that it hurts, and she pulls at his hair, biting down on his lip to make him stop, make him move on, lower, until he’s running his teeth down her throat.

“Did you know I was working today?” she breathes.

“Maybe.”

“Fuck you, FP.”

She can feel his smile against her neck, and when he snakes a hand up her skirt this time, she doesn’t stop him. He’s fumbling, she observes; his fingers are shaking a little as they prod and poke, but it doesn’t matter. She’s been walking around in a constant state of half-arousal for months now, and it doesn’t take much before she’s writhing under his unpracticed touch, trying to meet his movements.

“Goddamn it,” she says impatiently, and she grabs his hand, guides two fingers firmly to her clit and makes him press down on her panties while she moves against them until she comes, legs shivering erratically.

“Christ, Alice,” says FP, voice hushed and desperate. She reaches down, slides her hand over his jeans to find his hardon. She rubs it once, twice, three times before he whimpers another “Christ,” and slumps against the shelf. The extra weight is just enough to make the brackets give up, and with an immense crash, they fall unceremoniously to the floor in an avalanche of disposable fast food packaging.

As they lie there panting awkwardly, the bell sounds again. Alice pushes FP away and manages to stand up, legs trembling.

“You, fix this,” she says, motioning at the floor. She straightens her skirt before going out to greet the customer.

Fifteen minutes later he slinks past her at the bar, and she tries her best not to look at him. Inevitably, she fails. Then again, so does he.

 

* * *

 

Alice can feel his eyes on her whenever he’s near. They have Chemistry together, and he sits in the row behind her; she can feel the heat of his body from five feet away. When she does her stretches ahead of cheer practice he caresses her leg with his gaze, from foot to thigh and back again. She bends her back gracefully, deliberately, rolls her head to show her neck, and her skin prickles as he looks, and looks, and looks, but never says a thing.

The first Friday back at school, he takes Samantha to the movies. The second Friday, it’s Joanne. The third, it’s Hermione.

“I heard a weird rumor,” says Mary one day in the cafeteria. “At least I think it’s a rumor?”

Alice looks at her, waiting for her to continue.

“Well, I was talking to Fred, and–”

“You were, were you?”

Mary grins. “Shut up. Anyway, he was saying that you never went on that date with FP? At the Twilight?”

“Okay,” says Alice, chewing a slice of apple slowly.

“But you did?”

“Well, duh?”

“Okay, okay!” says Mary, holding her hands up. “It’s a weird rumor, so I had to ask!”

Alice frowns. “It _is_ weird. Like, who would say that?”

Mary bites her lip. “Actually, it’s kind of FP saying it?”

Carefully, Alice folds her napkin and dabs at her mouth. “What exactly has he been saying?”

“I don't know… Something about you waiting around for an hour for him to pick you up. That asking you out was a…” She shrugs, giving Alice a helpless look.

“A joke?” The question comes out in a whisper.

“Oh, Alice…”

 

* * *

 

That weekend it's Sandra’s birthday, and someone throws a huge house party. The whole cheerleading squad is there, and most of the football team. Alice has two shots of vodka, then takes a cute linebacker (he's a junior and she can't recall his name) by the hand and leads him upstairs.

He's gentle and nervous and wants to kiss a lot, but when Alice becomes impatient, he obliges, climbing on top of her. She's a little woozy from the drink and the whole thing is mildly uncomfortable, not to mention unremarkable. Mostly, she's praying for FP to come in and catch them. He doesn't, so when they walk down again after she makes sure he sees them. He's got a girl in his lap, and he stands up so quickly that she falls off with a little shriek. Alice meets his gaze levelly, holds it all the way to the door.

Next week, she spots the linebacker in the corridor on the way to Biology. He’s sporting a black eye and a broken lip, and stares at his feet when she walks by.

“What happened to him?” she whispers to Mary.

“I heard he got into some kind of fight at the party,” says Mary. “Weren’t you there?”

Alice feels cold all over, fidgets with her binder as they keep walking. “I left early.”

 

* * *

 

For the first time ever, she goes to his house. It’s not far from hers, but FP the elder has a singularly bad reputation and who knows about the mother. No one’s home, so she hangs around on the sidewalk nearby until he pulls up in his truck. He gets out and she can see he’s wearing a leather jacket - not just any leather jacket either - and she nearly turns tail there and then. But no, this has gone too far now, and she has to talk to him.

“Hey,” she calls, jogging up to the driveway.

“What are you doing here?” he asks angrily, looking around.

“Did you beat that… that guy up because of me?”

“ _That guy?_ ”

“You know who I’m talking about.”

He looks livid. “You don’t even know his _name_?”

“Who cares if I do? Why did you beat him up?”

“Because his face looked like it wanted beating up.”

“God, what’s your fucking damage, FP?”

“ _My_ damage?” He steps closer, voice sinking. “You won’t sleep with me, but you’ll do it with some bland poser and you don’t even know his _name_?”

“So _what_?”

He narrows his eyes. “It was just to piss me off, wasn’t it.”

Alice snorts a laugh. “You’re deranged,” she says. Then she motions at the jacket. “And a… a _criminal_. So just leave me alone. Don’t come to Pop’s again. Ever.”

“Love you too, Alice,” he yells after her as she hurries home, her coat wrapped tightly around her.

 

* * *

 

In her third year, Hermione takes over after Sandra as captain of the River Vixens. She’s very sweet towards Alice now, and Alice is just as sweet back. They compliment each other on their hair, their clothes, their makeup, and Alice still works hard, three nights a week, to make sure she can afford to never wear the same outfit twice in a week. She fully expects Hermione to start dating FP (they’re both captains now), but it never happens.

“I think he likes you,” Hermione confides to her one night after practice.

“Oh, I’m _so_ sure,” mutters Alice. Then she remembers something. “You went on a date with him once. What happened?”

Hermione rolls her eyes. “Ugh, nothing. We went to the Twilight and watched a movie.”

“And?”

“And nothing. The movie was totally lame, I can’t even remember what it was called, and he just sat there completely, like, _engrossed_. He made me buy snacks as well.”

Alice feels like she could kiss her. “Bummer,” she says.

“It’s cool,” says Hermione, smiling. “He’s not exactly my type.”

“Oh? What _is_ your type?”

Hermione scrunches up her nose, hesitates. “I don’t know… Fred is kind of cute, don’t you think?”

Fred Andrews. Mary’s Fred. She forces a laugh. “Totally. And totally _not_ my type.”

 

* * *

 

While the weather is still warm, the air still smelling of dry grass, she writes an editorial about the Cold War for her English class. It’s a good editorial, called The Imbalance of Terror, and Mr Stevens passes it on to the school paper, _The Blue and Gold_. A week later, she gets a call at home from Hal Cooper in her year. She knows who he is, of course; preppy, smart looking, clever without actually being a nerd. He says he likes her article, asks if she maybe wants to write regularly for the paper.

The week after, they go on their first date. Even her mom doesn’t object.

“The Coopers have money,” she says sagely. “Hold on to that one.”

“Mom, it’s a date,” says Alice, but she takes care with her hair, wears a proper yet cute dress, doesn’t put too much lipstick on.

He holds the car door for her, and the inside smells new and leathery. They go to a restaurant where the prices on the menu make her blanch. Hal gives her a little smile.

“Let me order,” he says. “If you don’t mind, of course. I know what’s good here.”

She agrees and prays to God he won’t suggest splitting the bill. They have lobster, and Alice thinks it’s pretty much like a giant shrimp with garlic on top. He pays with a credit card, helps her with the jacket, and she feels like a princess.

They drive up to a hill overlooking Sweetwater River to watch the sunset. They have their first kiss there, and Alice hates that she feels nothing, nothing, _nothing_ when he presses his nervous lips against hers.

 

* * *

 

“Hal Cooper?” says Mary, as though it’s the name of some hitherto unknown STD.

“Yes,” says Alice defensively. “Why, what’s wrong with Hal?”

Mary shakes her head a little. “Nothing, I guess. I just… There’s something fishy about that guy.”

Alice is suddenly furious. _Mary_. No matter who or what it is, she always seems to disapprove. One after another, thoughts about Mary bubble up and pop loudly in her mind. Mary, the sarcastic little know-it-all. Mary, who despises gossip but is always the first to know everything. Mary, who doesn’t have to study to get good grades. Mary, who says she doesn’t care about boys but still dates one of the most popular guys on campus.

“Whatever,” says Alice quietly, turning back to her book.

The next time they practice outdoors, she talks to Fred, drops a not so subtle hint about Hermione being into him.

“Hermione?” he says, his eyes lighting up a bit. Then he grimaces. “I don’t know, Alice. I feel like I’ve got a good thing going on with Mary…”

“Oh, so are you guys serious?” she asks, acting surprised.

“Uh…”

“Oh, wow, I’m so sorry Fred, I didn’t mean to go and stir things up. I was just under the impression that it wasn’t, like… You know what, just forget I said anything.” She smiles sweetly and heads for the showers.

 

* * *

 

Hal takes her on date after date. On the fourth one, he brings a gift; a gold necklace with a slender cross. No wonder mom likes him, she thinks as she lifts her hair to let him fasten it. They kiss; chaste kisses at first, and when he finally plucks up the courage to open his mouth she has to try her hardest to keep herself from giggling, it’s so bad. With a little practice, it becomes bearable, but she still feels nothing, nothing, nothing.

At lunchtime on the 9th of November, principal Weatherbee announces that school is out for the rest of the day; the Wall has fallen. They end up at Hermione’s house, because her parents are out of town. There’s drink and smokes all around. Jocks and nerds alike are partying, united if not by the downfall of communism, then by weed and vodka. Hal and his group of friends are watching the news in the far corner of the front room, and Alice sits with them. The images of people clawing and hacking away at the brick and mortar are haunting, touching, but all Hal seems to focus on is money.

“A whole new market is opening up,” he explains to her as if she’s never heard of the USSR before.

“Alice?” It’s Hermione, waving at her to come along. “FP wants to talk to you,” she says once they’re out of earshot, pushing their way through the throng of people in the hallway.

He’s leaning against the garden wall outside, wearing that jacket. She doesn’t put hers on, doesn’t plan on staying out here long enough to need it.

“What do you want?” she asks, hugging herself tightly.

“Are you here with Hal?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

She huffs. “What kind of a question is that?”

He comes closer, and her stupid, stupid, _stupid_ heart starts pounding like it hasn't for almost a year. “You don’t even like him,” he says.

“I love him,” says Alice. 

“You love...him,” he repeats, and gently trails his fingers over the gold chain around her neck. “Or this?”

“Does it have to be either? Can’t it be both?”

“You’re cold,” he says, rubbing her arm. “Let’s go inside.”

He leads the way, heading straight for the stairs. There's couples making out everywhere; on the steps, in the hallway upstairs, in Hermione’s room. FP opens door after door until finally ushering her inside a large bedroom. No doubt it's the parents’.

“What now?” she asks.

And when he _looks_ at her, she already knows she’s lost. “Whatever you want,” he says.

In all the worst kind of poetry, sparks fly, birds sing and buds burst when lovers kiss, but Alice has waited almost a year for this, and there's nothing poetic about the way their teeth clash, the way she pushes herself close so forcefully he almost stumbles back. Then his jacket comes off, and after that, the t-shirt. From there, the bed isn't far away, and before she gives herself the time to think twice about it, she's climbing on top of him, straddling his hips. Her skirt is already bunched around her waist, and they both fumble with his buckle and fly. Pushing his jeans down a little, she finally sits down, feels his length underneath her, and she shudders and sighs before letting the cotton of her panties slide over his boxers.

“What do you want, Alice,” he says between clenched teeth.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“Say it then.”

“No, I won’t, you fucking perv,” she says, grinding down on him mercilessly.

“Jesus,” he groans. “Wait. Alice, _wait._ ”

He grabs her ass and pushes her forward until she’s on his stomach. He’s biting his lip, eyes squeezed shut and nostrils flaring with every breath.

“What’s wrong?” she asks innocently. When he doesn’t reply, she reaches behind her to sneak her hand into his shorts.

“No!” he says, fumbling for her arm. “I can’t… Fuck it, just come here.”

He shoves his arms under her thighs and shoulders down on the bed, then pushes her forward to bury his face in her panties. Alice almost cries out, but manages to stifle it, and instead whimpers in stutters as he licks and sucks at her, runs his teeth over the fabric to tease at her clit. She’s so stupidly horny it’s almost embarrassing, and the only thing that keeps her from losing it completely is her fear of crushing or choking him. She stays painfully still, perched lightly on her knees as the pressure between her hips builds and builds, and when he suddenly decides to hum appreciatively against her, she comes fast and hard without any warning at all and topples over on the bed with an undignified, drawn-out groan.

FP rolls over on his belly, wipes his chin with a grin and crawls over to her. “Ready for round two?” he asks, tugging at the lace trimmings of her panties.

“You won’t last two minutes,” she says in a mocking voice, still out of breath, but she pulls the soaked panties down all the same and lies back on the soft pillows.

“I’ll last longer than you did,” he says.

He takes a moment to look hungrily at her, then lets his boxers join his jeans somewhere around the knees before sinking down between her legs. Resting against her, his cock feels hot and heavy, and she’s so wet that when he moves a little, it slips inside an inch or two.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he whispers, balanced on trembling arms. He bends down to kiss her, lazily this time, his tongue brushing lightly against hers. “Does he ever get you this wet?” he asks.

“He wants to wait,” says Alice.

“What a fucking idiot,” says FP, pushing into her.

One minute and forty-five seconds later, he’s moaning wicked words into her neck before collapsing on top of her, panting. He rolls off her and drags his hands down his face. “Give me five minutes,” he says, eyes closed. “Ten, tops.”

As it turns out, they don’t get ten minutes, or even five, because downstairs, the party has been getting rowdy and the cops have turned up. FP wears the jacket inside-out and sneaks out the window, and Alice takes the stairs.

“Where were you?” asks Hal as he ushers her past the Sheriff’s men with a nod and a smile.

“I ran into someone I hadn’t seen in ages and got stuck upstairs. Sorry.”

But the weird thing is that she doesn’t feel sorry. Not at all. Not even a little, even though she know she ought to.

 

* * *

 

She spends Thanksgiving with Hal’s family. They approve of her grades, her work at the school paper, her part time job, her diligence in almost every aspect of her life.

“Peace of mind doesn't come from money, but from hard work,” says Mr Cooper, the silver cutlery grating against the plate as he cuts his streak.

Their house isn’t the grandest on the street, and their car isn’t the biggest one, but they have a dining room (at home, she eats in the kitchen) and a porch swing (she loves it) and a big TV with a brand new VCR (mom’s set is an ancient black and white one). They have a CD player and Hal picks out a Roxette album. The sound is so crisp and clean that every single line of _Listen to your Heart_ hits home.

That night she lies in bed, contemplating her future. By now, it’s clear that Hal has his mind set on her. As for her, she doesn’t know. She had always hoped to make her own way in the world, but she still doesn’t have a clue how. Hal is stable, safe… She tries to avoid thinking about the money, because there’s more to him than that. The only thing she knows for sure is that FP spells nothing but trouble and more trouble. She vows never to speak to him again. When she closes her eyes, images of that night flood her mind. With a resigned sigh, she turns over on her belly and slips her hand into her panties.

 

* * *

 

On New Year's Eve, she's getting ready for the night when the phone rings.

“Hello?”

“ _Did you tell Fred that I wasn’t serious about him and me?_ ”

Mary’s voice is unstable, as if she’s been crying, maybe still is.

“I...what?” says Alice.

“ _Did you. Tell Fred. That I wasn’t serious about the relationship._ ”

Alice paces the length of the phone cord, which is exactly two and a half steps, back and forth. “Yeah, I heard the question, Mary. I’m just… No?”

“ _Okay. Time for question number two. Why did you tell him that Hermione was into him?_ ”

Alice makes a little sound of disbelief. “What?”

Mary sobs, and her voice breaks when she next speaks. “ _Don’t fucking lie to me, I’ve talked to them both_.”

Had she really said all that much? She had mentioned it, yes, but she hadn’t _said_ , in so many _words_ … Her head is spinning now, and her stomach is aching in a sickening way. “Mary…”

“ _Save it, Alice_.”

The phone clicks, and she hangs up slowly. Then she takes off her heels. Mary was going to that party. Hermione as well. Almost everyone was, and now… After a few minutes contemplation, she puts her shoes on again and heads out.

She doesn't have to wait around outside his house this time; she knows where the Serpents have their pit. The bar is crowded and smoke-filled, and she finds him at a pool table like some goddamn movie cliche.

“Happy New Year,” he says, barely looking up. “Tell Shirley at the bar that I'm buying you a drink. I'll be over soon.”

Shirley turns out to be a 300 pound biker with a mullet and a horseshoe mustache. He looks at her like he doesn't know whether to kick her out or give her a glass of warm milk, but when she drops FP’s name he just raises his eyebrows with a sigh and takes her order. In his defense, Alice has to admit he makes a mean Cosmopolitan. She sips it carefully, makes it last until FP comes over to join her. He gets her another drink, and orders whisky for himself.

“So, what brings you to this side of the tracks?” he asks.

“This _is_ my side of the tracks,” she says.

“Oh yeah, totally.”

“It is, though. Ugh, nevermind.” She drains her glass and cringes; she doesn’t drink very often.

“The question remains, Alice. Did you get lost on your way to some uptown soirée or what?”

“I don’t think I’d be welcome right now.”

“Really?” He leans forward, interested, but she shakes her head warningly, so he shrugs and knocks back his drink. “All right, keep your secrets. Wanna go for a ride?”

He drives her down the narrow road that winds next to the Sweetwater. They’re utterly alone out here, the summer homes that lie scattered through the forest empty and cold. If he asked her to run away with him now, she would say yes in a heartbeat, she thinks. He doesn’t, though. Instead, he eventually pulls in on a dirt track and the truck jolts and jumps over potholes and roots.

“Where are we going?” she asks.

“Why, are you scared?” FP says, grinning at her.

She arches a brow, then opens her jacket, shows him where the handle of her folded pocket knife is peeking out.

“Damn, Alice,” he says, grin growing wider.

“So?”

“There’s a cabin down here, just by the river.”

“Your dad’s?”

He tilts his head and narrows his eyes. “Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.”

They pull up in front of a small house and FP digs out a torch from somewhere in the back of the truck.

“Hold this,” he says and gives it to her, and she lights the way for him as he jumps up onto a rain barrel and gropes around in the gutter. There, he finds a key, and moments later, he’s letting her into the cabin.

He seems at home as he walks around, turning the lights on. She sits down on a worn couch as he lights the fireplace in the main room. It takes a while, but once he’s started feeding the flames with bigger chunks of wood, the heat starts spreading throughout the small space, and Alice soon feels warm enough to take her jacket off.

“What’s Hal doing tonight?” FP asks without turning around.

The question makes her cold all over again. “I don’t know,” she says. It’s a lie. He’s away with his family, out of state and out of mind. Until now.

“I’ve got a feeling he wouldn’t exactly approve of you being here.”

“Well,” she says, standing up and walking over to him. She runs her fingers through his hair. “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

“No.”

He lays her down there, on a threadbare rug in front of the fire. They make love twice before they hear the faint echoes of fireworks. They drink someone else’s cheap red wine out of plastic picnic mugs, and then he makes her come four (or maybe five - she’s too worn out by the end of it to be sure) times before he takes her again.

When they wake up the next morning, she’s so sore she doesn’t think she’ll ever be able to walk again. He brings them canned peaches for breakfast, and then licks her until (against all reason) she’s urging him back inside her one more time.

He drives her home, and she thinks maybe this is a new year, a new decade, a new start for her. As he pulls over by her house, she bites her lip, takes a deep breath.

“FP…” she says, nervously.

“Hmm?”

“Do you want to, like… Go together?”

He chuckles. “You’re sweet, Alice,” he says. “But you don’t want that.”

She can’t remember getting out of the car, can’t remember opening the door or entering the house. She can’t remember getting into bed, but she knows that now she’s here, she doesn’t ever want to get out.

 

* * *

 

On her first day back at school, she finds a note in her locker. She unfolds it. It’s a letter informing her that regretfully, her position on the River Vixens cheerleading team has been filled by a new, extraordinary talent. The captain sends her heartfelt regrets, but hopes that she will understand the decision with no hard feelings.

It’s Hal who finds her crying behind the football stands. He wraps his coat around her; it’s woolen and warm and smells a little of his aftershave.

“What’s going on?” he asks.

She hesitates, but the need to not feel so utterly alone is overwhelming, and the words suddenly tumble out. “They kicked me off the squad.”

He hugs her tightly, kisses the top of her head. “Screw them, Alice,” he says quietly. “They’re not worth it.”

And she cries, and cries, and cries into his chest. _Liar_ , a voice inside her head says. _Liar, liar, liar_.

From that day on, it's him and her. They go on dinner dates with other couples, she becomes friends with his friends, joins a new clique in school. She wears her hair the way he likes it, swaps her black skirts for pastels. They work on the school paper together. He writes the articles and she proofreads them. At least that’s the official version. Hal is not a bad writer - it's just that Alice is much, much better. Sometimes, she rewrites entire texts.

“You're my muse,” he says, kissing her on the cheek.

Her name rarely makes it onto the page.

 

* * *

 

They have one big fight. It’s the week before the summer holidays, and she mentions that she’s started thinking about colleges, and where to apply to.

“UCLA?” he says, frowning. “To do what?”

“I want to write.”

“But there’s better journalism programs right here in New York!”

She crosses her arms defensively. “Screenwriting. I want to write for television.”

Hal simply laughs. He laughs for a good long while; there’s tears in his eyes when he finally manages to stop. “You’re not serious? You _are_?”

Alice doesn’t know what to say. It’s been a vague dream of hers since forever, and he is the first person she’s ever told. “Fuck you, Hal,” she blurts out.

His face turns thunderous in a heartbeat. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“Yeah, I heard you and I won’t tolerate that kind of–”

“You won’t _tolerate_? What are you, my _dad_?”

“Maybe if you’d had a father he would have raised you better than–”

“Shut up!” she screams. She’s so angry she doesn’t know what to do with herself. She tugs at the golden chain around her neck, the one holding the cross he gave her. “Fuck you,” she says again, and Hal just stands there, looking stupidly at her. She tugs and tugs but the chain won’t break. Finally, she reaches back with shaking hands to unclasp it. “Fuck you,” she says one last time before throwing the necklace at his feet.

She waits around after football practice, doesn't care who sees her. He comes out with Fred Andrews, who avoids her gaze.

“I'll catch you later,” FP says to Fred after one look at Alice.

“What about practice?” says Fred. They have a band now, or so she hears.

“We'll see.”

Fred wavers, but apparently decides that it's not worth the trouble and saunters off, throwing a glance or two over his shoulder.

“Trouble in paradise?” asks FP.

“Don’t,” she says warningly and pulls him by the arm back into the deserted changing rooms.

He hauls her up and slams her against a locker, manages to hold her weight for the brief minutes it takes until she comes apart, helped along by her fingers. Seconds later, he follows her, biting down on her shoulder with a muffled groan.

“What’s going on?” he asks afterwards, when they’re sitting cuddled up on one of the benches.

“Hal’s an asshole.”

“Well, what’s new?”

She tells him what went down, and when she puts it into words, it doesn’t really sound as bad as it felt as it happened. FP looks thoughtful, almost concerned.

“He’s scared he’ll lose you if you go to L.A.,” he says after a while.

“ _What?_ That doesn’t make any sense!”

“He wants to keep you here any way he can. I would have done…” He pulls his hand through his hair a few times. “I mean, I would have done the same. If I were him.”

“FP…”

He pulls her close, gives her a slow, lingering kiss. “In another life, it would have been us, Alice,” he whispers.

It’s all she’s ever wanted to hear from him, and her heart is pounding so hard that it’s heating up her whole chest, a burning glow spreading throughout her. “It still can be.”

“It can, can it?” he kisses her again.

“If you want to.”

He smiles against her lips.

 

* * *

 

The next day, he’s not in school, and not the day after. On the third day, the Thursday before school’s out, she plucks up the courage to phone his home.

“ _Yeah?_ ” The voice on the other end of the line is rough, gravelly.

“Hello, Mr Jones?”

“ _Yeah._ ”

“This is Alice Smith. May I speak to FP, please?”

“ _Speaking. What do you want?_ ”

For a second or two she’s utterly confused, and then she remembers that his dad is also called FP. “I meant your son, Mr Jones. Sorry, sir.”

“ _Who’s this?_ ”

“Alice Smith, sir. From school.”

There’s a scraping sound as though he’s covering the receiver, and she can hear some distant muttering. “ _Don’t call here again_ ,” says FP the elder suddenly, and hangs up.

On the Friday, he’s back at school again. His right cheek is covered in a fading bruise, and he doesn’t as much as look at her. After the customary speeches and ceremonies, the hour and a half sitting uncomfortably on plastic fold-up chairs in the assembly, they’re let out into the sunshine. She can see him with Fred Andrews, over by an old wreck of a VW minibus, painted in bright colors. Along the side, the words _The Shaggin’ Wagon_ are sprayed on in graffiti style letters. People are gathered all around it, boys slapping it appreciatively, kicking the wheels; girls in sundresses are giggling and shrieking as they explore the inside.

“They’re going on a road trip.”

Alice turns to find Mary there. She doesn’t look angry, or annoyed, but almost pensive.

“Oh yeah?” she asks, unsure what to say.

“One last summer, before they settle down,” says Mary in a sing-song voice, as though she’s repeating someone else’s words. Fred’s words, Alice knows.

“I don’t think FP is ever going to settle down.”

“No, probably not.”

Mary walks away, leaving Alice to her own thoughts. FP looks at her once before they drive off. He gives her a little wave. She’s not sure what to make of it.

 

* * *

 

The knock on her window sill takes her completely by surprise. It’s almost midnight in early August and she’s lying on her bed, reading _A Streetcar Named Desire_ (required for the coming year) wearing nothing but a tank top and panties in the sweltering heat. When the knock comes, she flies up, trying uselessly to cover her thighs with the book.

“Who’s there?”

“It’s me,” comes Hal’s voice from under the open window.

She sticks her head out. “Hal?”

“Can I come in?”

Alice helps him up, his shoes kicking off huge flakes of paint as he scrambles inside. He turns away politely as she rummages around in her wardrobe for a pair of shorts. “What are you doing here?” she asks, tying the drawstring.

“I’m sorry,” he says. He sits down on her bed. In his chinos, his clean tennis shirt and shiny shoes, he looks completely out of place. He also looks desperately sad.

“Okay...” she says uncertainly.

“I mean it. I’ve spent all summer in complete agony, Alice. I’ve been an idiot, and I miss you so much. _So much_. It tears me up to think that it wouldn’t be you and me, in college, together. You’re the most talented woman I know, the cleverest, the most beautiful… And I can’t bear it when I think of you away in California.”

He’s handsome, she thinks. He’s the sort of guy a girl like her would realistically only dream of. If she’s honest, she doesn’t know why she’s even hesitating. When he reaches up for her hand, she takes it and sits down next to him.

“Please, forgive me Alice. I never meant to laugh at you. I love you. I _love_ you.”

“I love you too.” The words come so easily, maybe because she’s been yearning to say them out loud for so very, very long, and she thinks that probably she can make them true eventually.

Hal chokes back a sob of relief, and presses something into her hand. It’s the necklace, and she puts it back on, calmly. The sense of finality is overwhelming.

“There’s something else,” says Hal, digging around in his pocket. “I’ve had this for months,” he says, laughing unsteadily. It’s a small jewelery box, and Alice already knows what’s inside. “Maybe you don’t want to wear it yet, but I wanted to ask…”

“Yes,” she says firmly.

The next morning, she’s rummaging through her nightstand drawer looking for her tweezers when she finds a packet of tampons. She goes to put it in the bathroom, but halfway there she stops and stares at it, tries to remember when she last had her period, and she _can’t remember_ and deep down she already knows, she knows, she _knows_.

**Author's Note:**

> Please come yell at/with me about Riverdale on my tumblr, my name is [yavannies](http://yavannies.tumblr.com).


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